I was pulling the tray of mushroom gratinJamess favourite dishout of the oven. The kids were already asleep, and the house was warm, scented with the spices drifting from the kitchen. My phone buzzed on the countertop.
The screen lit up with a short message:
Love, Im waiting. Dont forget the strawberries and the cream.
Just a few words, yet they knocked my world off its axis. Ten years of marriage collapsed in an instant.
I stared at the screen until it went dark. A moment later another notification appeared, but I didnt read it.
My hands shook as I slipped the dish into the oven. Ten years. Two children. A business we had built togetheror rather, one he had built while I gave myself away.
Darling, what matters now is that you support me. Youll have time for your own projects later, hed said.
I believed him.
When he came home late, as he had been doing these past weeks, I asked nothing.
Sorry, love, the meeting ran over, he murmured.
I watched him in silence, his eyes fixed on his plate, and all I could think was: who is he lying tome or himself?
Everything all right? he noticed my quiet.
Just tired, I replied, forcing a smile.
Inside, everything was crumbling. When had I stopped existing for myself?
That night I lay awake, recalling how we methow he adored my sketches, how he promised a bright future.
Then came the marriage, the first pregnancy, a second pregnancy, and a company that demanded more and more of his time.
You understand, dont you? The priority is that we get stable, he would say.
I understood. I ran the household, kept appointments, answered calls, and tucked my drawings away in a drawer for later.
The next morning I started noticing details Id previously missed: the way he chose his shirts, how long he spent fixing his hair, how he averted his gaze when his phone buzzed.
Dad, will you play with me tonight? our younger son, Harry, asked, clinging to my sleeve.
Sorry, lad, I have an important meeting, I said.
An important meeting. I wondered whether I would ever wear that blue dress againthe one I wore at the start of our romance, now gathering dust in the back of my wardrobe, far too elegant for grocery runs or parentteacher evenings.
I kept doing everything as beforemaking breakfast, checking homework, handling the bills. Yet a single question burned inside me: why?
Who was she? How long had this been going on?
Mum, you look sad, my daughter, Grace, whispered, pulling me into a hug.
Its fine, love. Im just a bit tired, I replied, but this time I didnt convince myself.
We needed to talk.
That evening I pulled my old sketches from the drawer. So many ideas, so many plans. I found a drawing of a childrens bedroom Id made while pregnant with Gracea bright, whimsical space with hanging swings and modular walls.
James had once said, Make it simple. Its just a nursery.
It was just what? When had my dreams been reduced to just?
My phone buzzed again. A message from him:
Ill be home late tonight.
I stared at the screen and finally understood: I could not keep living like this.
The next night, while the kids were at their grandmothers, I waited for James with a firm resolve. He walked in, coat still on, and I asked:
Who is she?
The question that had been gnawing at me slipped out, cutting the silence like a blade.
James stopped, poured himself a whisky, and his hands trembled.
Claire, he whispered.
Give me the truth, James. I have a right to know.
He sat opposite me, fiddling with his glass.
It doesnt mean anything, he said.
Nothing?
Its just you know, things have been cold between us for a long time.
Cold?
I recalled everything:
Making him breakfast even when I was ill.
Pulling allnighters sorting his files.
Skipping a trip to Paris for one of his meetings.
When? I pressed.
When what? he asked.
When did it become cold? I demanded.
When I stopped wearing nice dresses? he snapped.
When I gave up my dream for your company? I shot back.
He winced.
Dont dramatise. You chose to be a housewife, he said.
A housewife?
I did your bookkeeping, arranged your meetings, raised our children. Thats being a housewife? I shouted.
Sophie, listen to me he tried to reach for my hand.
We can fix this. Ill quit. We can start over.
But the man before me felt like a stranger.
You know whats worst? I said, voice steady.
He fell silent.
Its not that youve met another woman. Its that you never understood the damage you caused.
I opened my sketchbook for the first time in years. The next morning I fetched the children, and then a new chapter began.
I was no longer someones shadow. I had become myself again, and the uncertainty that once terrified me now felt exhilarating.
Because the greatest betrayal is not being unfaithful to another, but betraying yourself.
